


Runaway

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad plot changes tbh, Depression, Eating Disorders, Girl meets boy, Homelessness, I'm Crazy, I'm confusing myself, I'm really confusing you guys sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Just read, Memory Loss, Multi, Other, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, also totally different girl, back and forth character veiw, boy is mental, if you're willing to wait 50000 words for it, just wait, opposite of slow build, or maybe girl is mental, the end sorta makes sense tho, what are tags anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:22:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ON HAITUS</p><p>You can run away from your enemies. You can run away from your friends. You can run away from your feelings. And fuck, you can even run away from yourself.<br/>But you cannot run forever. And when you stop running, everything you thought you had left behind, is going to catch up.</p><p>The story of two seperate lives that may never intersect, but ultimately change each others' future.</p><p>(sorry I suck at summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 懐かしい

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at such a thing so please review and let me know what you like/hate <3 Excuse any errors in grammar, I typed this on my shitty android phone. Looking forward to writing for you guyssss
> 
> (I also suck at notes)
> 
> UPDATE: using this fic as a starting point for my NaNoWriMo novel. It'll be over by the end of November but if I make good progress I'll update chapters on here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caroline's POV

_“I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise_

 

* * *

 

"Excuse me, are you okay?" I brush the hair out of my eyes and look at the woman, her face filled with concern. I take the headphones out from my ears and nod, flashing an upwards smile. The woman sits next to me at the bus shelter.

"So where are you headed?" she asks, lips pulled back to reveal her off-white teeth.

Animals, especially primates, bare their teeth as a threat. To show the enemy that they are prepared to fight. Humans bare their teeth to display reassurance, to calm the enemy. As if they weren't as violent as any other beast. It makes them so much more dangerous.

"The mall." I lie, tilting my head to the side as I widen my smile for affect. Lying has become a bit of a habit for me lately. Smiling, too.

"Oh, me too!" The woman says looking down the street for the bus. As she stands up and walks towards the curb, I do the same. It's only a few minutes of her saying something or the other about her daughter as I nod when I'm supposed to, eyes tracing the path of autumn leaves towards the pavement, before the bus pulls up.

I step on the bus dropping my change into the machine and make sure I'm sitting nowhere near the woman, or anyone else for that matter. It's not as if I hate people. I've just learned not to trust them. Treat them like the wild animals they are; never show your back and don't look them directly in the eyes. Bare your teeth to placate them. Forget those rules and you could end up dead, or worse, broken and used.

I place my ear buds back in and put my playlist on shuffle, not able to decide on a song to fit the mood myself. I stare outside the window, allowing some silent words to escape my lips; only concerned with the fog of my breath on the window, the deep tremor of guitar strums and hollow voices in my ears. At some point the music stops but I leave my headphones in so that no one will think to bother me.

I don't get lost in my thoughts, my thoughts get lost in me. They leave my head as quickly as they enter. Like a pot of incense left outside on a windy day. All I can focus on really is when the hell my next meal will be and how long I can hold my breath before blackness creeps into the edges of my vision.

I'm distracted from my reverie by the sound of rowdy laughs and the echo of heavy boots as a group of boys barge onto the bus. I know their type, just from the lean in their walk to the bloodshot veins in their eyes. Eyes I have a clear view of as the apparent ring leader directs his glare towards me. I glance away from him and turn my face towards the rows of countless suburban houses passing by, all of them happy, all of them the same little boxes of neutral paint and beige bricks.

The obnoxious laughter gets closer and I think _don't sit next to me don't sit next to me don't-_

They do not sit next to me.

They sit directly across from me.

I convince myself that it's no big deal and continue counting the monotonous boxes. I manage to ignore the animal noises that grow increasingly more violent with each passing house. Until one of them hurls a balled up piece of paper into the small ecosystem that constitutes as public transit. It hits me on the side of my head and drops to the floor. I turn to glare in the direction of the offender and when I do the boys burst into laughter, nudging each other with elbows like Neanderthals. Great. I've got a front-row seat to planet of the fucking apes. I pull the yellow cord above my head and move into the isle to leave. One of them grabs at my wrist as I get up.

"Sorry about my friend, we were only joking around."

"Let go of me." I seethe as I jerk my arm out of his grasp and exit the bus. I'm absolutely livid over his touch because _no one_ touches me. Not my old friends, not my mother and certainly not some stranger on the bus. By the time I consider doing something like screaming or telling him exactly where to put his _'sorry_ ', my legs have already carried me off the bus.

Conflict is only worth the experience you gain from it, and there's nothing this boy can teach me that I don't already know. Besides, some fights are better off fought in your head.

At least then you never lose.

The streets are mostly empty, not surprising for an especially chilly afternoon in uptown suburbia. A flock of birds traverse across the sky, leaving me blinking up into the fading light and wondering at the negative space. I walk down the unfamiliar sidewalks until I come across a children' playground. The streetlights are illuminating the pavement now, and deciding it's better than a bench, I curl up in the hollow of a bright red slide, waiting for my mind to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Japanese for 'nostalgia'


	2. 忘れないで

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does this seem rushed? Probably because it is...please comment feedback, the NaNoWriMo pressure is too real, also I'm sorry if I totally disregard basic writing etiquette, I never really learned it.

> _"If we act like prey, they’ll act like predators." - Alyxandra Harvey_

 

* * *

 

I wake to the sound of birds chirping and the wind rustling through the dying trees.

Stretching my arms above my head, cracking the bones above each knuckle on my hand, I sigh. It's almost like a morning routine, warming up my limbs. It gives me a sense of purpose, comfortability, even happiness if I were to go that far. It's said that home is where the heart is but I beg to differ; Home is where you can stretch your aching bones.

Home is relative.

I grab my backpack, dusting reddish-brown woodchips off of it as I stand. I rub the sleep from my eyes and stamp the pins and needles from my feet. I start walking again, letting the crisp air assault my lungs with each deep inhale. I catch sight of a small plaza just ahead of me and direct my feet towards it. It's early morning so the parking lot and surrounding stores are pleasantly empty of people. One of the perks of living in ass-crack nowhere suburbia, I guess.

As I walk into a slick-with-burger-grease, no-relevant-name fast food place, the scent of coffee and fryer oil floods my pores, beckoning a low growl from my stomach. I ignore it and walk into the bathroom, not giving the bright menu or kitchen area a single glance. Better not to get my hopes up.

I'm alone in the two-stall bathroom so I can clean myself up a bit; I look into the mirror and cringe. My hair is a horrid mess of tangles and my eyeliner has smudged all over my face, making me resemble a raccoon or a starving artist. I reach for some paper towel to clean my face up with but the single dispenser is empty. I go into a stall and grab a few bunches of toilet paper instead. After I fix what I can of my face, I start on trying to make my hair presentable enough for the general public.

I'm not one for appearances but I'd rather not prompt people to cross to the other side of the street when they see me. Besides, what's the use of a good act when you don't have the mask to fit? I grab the hairbrush from my backpack and tie my raven hair into a high ponytail, leaving my blue bangs to dangle in front of my eyes.

I'd stolen the dye a couple of months ago and the color is still going strong, though the package said cobalt and my hair translated that into navy blue. As I'm about to leave a woman wearing far too much perfume walks in, sets her purse down on the counter and enters a stall, locking it behind her. I briefly wonder if all North American housewives are raised on stupidity or if I’m just lucky. I settle on a little bit of both. I'm looking around quickly before reaching into her purse and grabbing her wallet. I shove it in my bag as I exit the bathroom.

When the building is out of sight I reach into my bag and fish out the wallet, inside it I find about $30 and some cards. Must be my lucky fucking day.

I take the money and take the time to toss the wallet into a distant garbage can, mouthing a silent 'you're welcome' to Mother Nature with a smirk.

With half the money I buy breakfast and random snacks at a convenience store, stuffing the remaining change into my bag. Using one of my dozens of bus tickets I hop on a bus heading to a more familiar area.

Sitting at the back with my legs propped up against a seat, my head leans on the window. Feeling the rumble of the engine through my back and tasting the heaviness of the exhaust in the air, I relax.

I like busses. Well, empty ones.

In the last five months I've walked farther than I have in my entire life and I enjoy the burn in my legs, the feeling of absolute freedom I get as carry myself wherever the fuck I want to go. Even so, the warmth of a bus and the way the streets blur, the quiet hum in the air that leaves no room for loud silence or loud thoughts; it's a special thing in its own rite.

It reminds me of road trips and falling asleep in the back of our car at night, staring at stars through the dirt-tinted windows.

When I was young and naïve I used to think that the moon followed our car. Now that I know better I’m sort of glad it's not true. I'd much rather follow the moon instead.

When we start passing places I recognize I exit the bus and walk around town. Walking has become second nature to me. It might not be an esteemed skill but you tell me if you can walk confidently in any environment, any neighbourhood, and completely blend in. I can.

A sign outside of a local church reading 'Pot Luck' catches my eye. I figure a hot meal can't do any harm and head into the church.

Apparently I have bad intuition.

The line for the buffet-style brunch is enormous and glancing at faces I can't help but wonder if a few other people had the same idea as I had. The line snakes through almost all the pews and I sigh internally, not looking forward to being grounded in the same place for a long time. I reach the end of the queue and, thinking it would be too conspicuous to put my headphones in, I stare at the decorative windows and generic bible quotes painted onto the walls. I space out.

When it's finally my turn at the table I grab my plastic plate and fork and make my way down the line. When I get to the potatoes and I hold out my plate, a voice startles me.

"Caroline?"

My eyes dart up to the owner of the voice. The boy in front of me holding a large plastic spoon stares. It's a few seconds before I remember I'm supposed to respond and I end up just staring back, my mouth open slightly as I try to figure out what he wants. He looks about my age but his russet brown hair and pale face aren't anything special.

It’s his eyes, a strange mixture of grey and green that make me think I know him from somewhere.

Shit.

I’ve made eye contact.

"You don't remember me do you?" he says, smiling softly. I shake my head no as I finally find my voice, and it comes out as only a rough whisper.

"No, sorry." A shove from behind causes me to stumble forward dropping food all over myself and the floor. I look up as a man stands in the place I stood only seconds ago. The man mumbles apologies about how he wasn't looking but he and I both know he's just an impatient prick. It confirms the query I had earlier about not being the only stranger looking for hot food instead of religious company.

The boy serving potatoes rushes around the table to help me up, giving the man a glare as he does. He extends his hand and I hesitate for another long second before grabbing it. I'm pulled to my feet. I release the warm hand quickly and step out of line to brush the food off of me.

I bite my lip and hold in a few choice words as I realize that marinara that looked so good earlier is going to leave a stain and a less than pleasant stench.

"Wait here one second." The boy walks away without waiting for a response and starts talking with a short man in a deep red sweater. For a second I'm tempted to listen because his eyes are kind of interesting and I'm thinking I might want to get a second look at them, but then I see a few people paying more attention to the dirty girl with blue hair standing next to the line and I remember that eye contact is dangerous.

I turn away and start walking out of the church.

"Caroline, Caroline wait!" I glance back to see the boy making his way after me, and I notice now that he walks with a slight limp. I don't know why, _okay maybe I do know why but you won't hear me admit it_ ; I stop, and I wait.

"I can get your clothes cleaned if you want. There's a washer in the basement." He huffs as he reaches me. I contemplate it for a second, still not meeting his eyes, and the feel of something that could be ranch sauce dripping down my undershirt makes my decision for me.

"Okay."

I don't know how anything got under my dark green, long-sleeved hoodie, but now that I'm aware of it I have no choice but to follow him as he leads me past the line and to the basement.

We walk down a set of stairs, through a door on the side of the hall and enter a corridor.

I'm thinking this place is bigger than it looks and that maybe it wasn't the best idea to follow a stranger into a basement, even if it is a church.

He opens a door on the right and we enter a washroom.

"I'm just going to grab some clothes from the Lost & Found for you to wear while yours dry." He smiles and leaves before I can think of saying something sensible, like ' _thank you_ '.

I relax a little once he's gone and take in my surroundings. I'm in a unisex children’s bathroom as I realize we walked through what was probably a daycare room to get here. There are little step-up stools in bright colours under the sink and posters on the grey walls reminding you to 'Flush' and 'Wash Your Hands!"

I gaze into the mirror and frown at how my attempt at taming my hair with a ponytail has ultimately failed. I'm so deeply invested in beholding the birds nest I call hair, that it's no surprise when I jump a little at the knock on the door. I quickly recover as I raise my voice.

"Come in."

He walks in with a shirt bundled in his arms and I take it from him, no eye contact necessary. I'm holding the shirt now but the boy is still acting hesitant, looking like he wants to say something and I realize I should probably stop being so fucking void.

"Thank you." I smile. No teeth.

It's probably the nicest thing I've said to him this whole time.

"No problem," he mumbles, eyeing his feet, "I'll be right outside."

As soon as he's gone again I change quickly, back facing the mirror this time because it's not as if I don't know exactly what my body looks like. It's a subject I tend to avoid; and why not? You can spend your whole life disconnected from your body, and not live any less because of it. Not that I have the privilege of living a good life. And yeah, maybe my body has everything to do with it. But that doesn't make the statement any less true. It's only after I’ve thrown on the old shirt and my hoodie and tank lie discarded in a pile on the floor that I realize the problem.

The shirt he's given me stops just above my elbows.

 _Shit_.

I panic for a second, feeling my heart jolt a few times. I clench my jaw, eyes squeezing shut, forcing myself to breathe deeply through my nose in order to calm the fluttering in my chest. I think things over and decide that there's no point in freaking out.

There's no point in freaking out. I'll play things cool and try not to draw attention to myself; I'm good at that. With that thought keeping my confidence afloat I grab my clothes, stride to the door and pull it open.

Stepping out I look both ways down the hall and don't see the boy. _Has he gone to get the axe or something?_ I think playfully but when his head sticks out from a doorway down the hall I let out a small squeak. He grins and calls out,

"The laundry room is down here. Come on." Finally slowing down my raucous heartbeat for the second time in a span of two minutes I follow his retreating back.

Walking into the laundry room I expect some damp, dim cave with a creaky old machine, cobwebs in ceiling corners and cracks running along the walls. I am pleasantly surprised to be almost blinded by the bright fluorescent lights and clean tile flooring.

Ignoring the boys' outstretched arms I walk to the washer and quickly drop my clothes in, folding my arms across my chest as soon as they've left my grasp. He moves from his place leant against the wall and sets the machine.

He's next to me now, pressing the buttons and dials, a look of pure, unadultured concentration on his face.

He's close enough for me to notice that he smells like gingerbread; not completely baked, but the smell that fills the house when they're almost done cooking. It's warm and sweet and not overwhelming in the least, in fact I find myself leaning towards him. 

He's close enough for me to smooth down his unruly hair if I wanted.

I step away, finding a nice section of the far wall to lean against.

Much better.

"Do you have a sweater I can wear while I wait? It’s pretty chilly in here." I ask.

It's the first full sentence I've delivered to the boy and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

"Sorry, that was all I could find," he explains, pointing to my shirt. He rests both hands behind him on the machine as it starts,

"You can wear my sweater if you want." the corner of his eyes crinkle a little when he smiles and I start to hate his smile, wondering if it's actually a smirk.

"No. Thanks." I say in a tone that pretty much ends the conversation. If you could call it that.

I look everywhere except his face, I look at the tiles and the broom in the corner and the floor to ceiling utility cupboard across the room. My mouth is pressed into a tight line and I notice the boy shifting uncomfortably in front of the washer. The only sound in the room is the rumble and swish of the clothes inside and I realize I’m stuck down here for at least 15 minutes.

I find myself staring at the sweater he offered me and almost regretting my decision. It's a nice grey, crewneck sweater and looks pretty damn warm. It clings to him in all the right places. I stop admiring it though when I see that it’s pulled up to his elbows.

His forearms are lightly tanned, and lanky, veins visible but not sticking out. They're strong and there's not a single blemish on them from what I can see. I frown. Still nothing but radio silence passes between us and I start thinking that maybe I've been too harsh.

This boy has gone out of his way to be nice to me and hasn't forced conversation like most people wou-

"So," he begins and it figures I spoke too soon, "You still go to Richardson High, right?"

I narrow my eyes. I don't go to school anymore, it’s done its job to teach me the basics but anything past mid-highschool is a waste of time, effort, and valuable resources.

Just ask princess Diana. Actually-maybe that wasn't the best example.

"No." I answer, plain and simple. The boy looks lost now, his lips parted and brow furrowed.

From what I can recall of my father, I used to furrow my brow a lot as a child. He would always press two fingers between my eyebrows and say something along the lines of

"What's this? You're getting wrinkles!" Every time I would be terrified by the statement, and every time he would tell me that the only way to prevent wrinkles was to smile really wide for the rest of the day.

The offspring is conditioned to hunt from birth.

I speak.

"Look..." and now it's my turn to furrow my brow, mouth slowly falling agape. I realize that I don't even know his fucking name. This whole time I’ve been referring to him as 'the boy' and I hadn't even asked for his name.

I'm about to apologize before I realize that he didn't even offer his name. I squint at him and he catches on because the next words to leave his lips are,

"It's Allen." He smiles again, a wide one, and I conclude that I really do hate it.

People who give away smiles like it's a part of their natural expression are not to be trusted. Those kinds of smiles are either all fake, have no real meaning, or are a warning sign that someone's jugular is about to be torn out.

"Look. Allen. I really appreciate what you've done for me but I don't want to talk, and I don't remember you."

"Not even a little?" He's almost grinning now.

"No."

I don't tell him that he did look familiar, the first time I looked into his eyes, but I haven't looked into them since and I'm not planning to. My arms tighten against my torso.

"Besides," I continue, "my mother always told me that if you completely forget something, it wasn't important enough to remember."

He looks more than a little frustrated and I'm glad I wiped the smile off his face until suddenly it's there again, full force, razor white teeth and everything.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that the best kind of memories are the ones you lose and find again?" There's laughter in his voice and I'm pretty sure he just made that up.

My frown deepens but only to compensate for the fact that I kind of want to smile. Like, a _real_ one.

I'm going to say something even more snipe in reply but before I can, the machine goes off. It doesn't feel like it's been 15 minutes but I guess time flies whether you're having fun or not.

Before I can reach the machine he has my clothes in his hands and is holding them out to me.

I stop.

At this point I can't really ask him if he can put the clothes down, but if I take them then he is going to see my arms. And fuck I’ve just met him and he actually isn't the devil reincarnate but there's not much I can do now. I set my face in a neutral mask and grab the items from his grip.

Next thing I know I'm striding out the door, down the hall towards the bathroom. If his sharp intake of breathe could say anything I'm pretty sure it's saying that he saw.

He's a little ways behind me but he's following me through the hallway. My blood is pumping in my ears and I want to yell because _why is this psychopath following me?_

_Why are people so goddamn nosy?_

As if it's their god-given right to know everything that goes on in your life.

Pushing through the door into the bathroom it slams shut behind me. I can hear him outside the door as he says my name once but it's muffled by the sounds of fabric as I quickly tear off the shirt and pull on my hoodie.

Taking my umpteenth deep breath of the day, I step forward, flinging open the door with what I would call grim determination and my mother would call attitude.

He is standing directly in front of the doorway, practically blocking my path.

"Move." I almost growl through gritted teeth.

"Caroline, just hear me out, okay? Just calm down."

I'm fuming and I don't know why.

Maybe it’s because I feel trapped, like a cornered animal.

Maybe it's because the boy- Allen, just told me to calm down.

Whatever it is, it pisses me off enough to take both hands and give Allen a very solid push to the chest.

My push turns out to be pretty pathetic because he doesn't fall over or yell. He just stumbles back a little, a look of surprise on his face as his mouth forms a silent 'o'.

I brush past him and I’m ready to start sprinting, when he grabs my wrist.

Why do people _do_ that?

"Caroline, I saw your scars as soon as I saw you today. I saw them in your eyes," He's rushing his words, trying to get them out fast enough, like he's worried that I'll be gone before he says them. He _should_ be.

His grip is still tight on my wrist.

_Is he for real?_

_Did he really just say that?_

_What the actual fuck_.

"You don't need to hide from me. You know me."

I'm almost scared now because I'm certain I don't know him. Yet, I can tell he's not lying.

I can tell he's telling the truth because when Allen lies he blinks too much, as if the lies are bits of dust leaving his mouth and tickling at his eyes.

And now I really am scared because I couldn't tell you how I know that.

I could not tell you how the _hell_ I Know that.

"You don't have to hide from me, Caroline." He repeats.

I'm looking into his eyes again though I promised I wouldn't and my heart almost catches in my chest.

I don't know him.

This is bullshit.

He's crazy and I need to get out.

_I need to get away._

I rip my hand from his grip and his arm falls to his side, he looks defeated. He's furrowing his brow.

In the next second I am gone because I do not know him. And I am not hiding.

I am running away.

This time, he doesn't follow me.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_That night, Caroline dreams._

_She dreams that she is a firefly, flashing on and off inside cupped hands, trapped and dying with the sunrise._

_She dreams that she is with her mother, on a warm spring day, baking gingerbread and fiercely staring at the timer because she won't let them burn. Not this time._

_She dreams that she is a perfect girl, with perfect wrists, who always smiles and never gets wrinkles._

_She dreams of chasing the moon._

_Caroline does not remember her dreams, when she wakes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Japanese for 'don't forget me'   
> Lame, I know.  
> Next POV will be introducing out new char, Astrid! Yay, I know! Overloading you guys with new characters already, I told you I suck at the basic writing etiquette stuff...


	3. 心のうち

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid's POV  
> *my failed attempt and some sort of chaos forgive it sucks I'm sorry*  
> For all the people from tumblr, yes this is slightly personal as you can tell, in fact alot of this came from excerpts from my diary (yes I own a diary, god) so yep... Lets just pretend this is unrelated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look too deeply in the back and forth 'persons in this chapter, it's not supposed to make much sense really.

> _"Man is not truly one, but two." - Robert Louis Stevenson_

 

* * *

 

 

**(WAKE UP)**

You wake up.

Or is it, I wake up?

Either way, someone is waking up. And someone is awaking,

**(GET UP)**

That's difficult.

Waking up and getting up are two entirely different shades on the colour wheel.

Waking requires minimal cursory senses. I have those.

Getting up requires effort, will.

Someone is running low on that.

I still do it though, both of those things, and I hardly ever complain.

**(COMPLAINING IS SELFISH)**

I am not a selfish person. I am a selfless person; it's it's own kind of selfishness.

I don't do it for you, no,

**(I DO IT FOR ME)**

Someone goes to school. That one's on you, not me. I never go to school. My body goes, but I stay here.

Where it's warm.

If the mind freezes with the body then both will die, and I don't want to die,

**(YOU DO)**

_Astrid gets ready for school. Astrid puts on clothes. Baggy, black, warm._

_Astrid washes her face, because her face is dirty. She does not wash her hands, because her hands are not dirty,_

**(MY HANDS ARE CLEAN)**

_She brushes her teeth, she applies her mask with black ink and neutral-toned powders, she leaves her house,_

**(IT IS NOT A HOME)**

_She gets on the bus. She goes to her school._

_Astrid says hello to her friends._

_Astrid smiles at her teachers._

_She is educated on how to forget things, how to pretend she can remember._

_She gets on the bus._

_She enters her house._

_She exchanges pleasantries with her mother._

_Astrid sinks into bed, an anchor to the sea._

_Shipwrecks don't get up, but you do._

**(WAKE UP)**

 

 

This morning is no different than the others. I stand at the bus stop, wanting to die.

My stomach is empty, as it usually is in the morning, and i'm inhaling bitter tar fumes from my second cigarette.

My legs feel weak and leaning against the bus sign I have to lock my knees so that I don't collapse.

It's easy enough for me to write poetry about lying down in the street when your bones can no longer hold up the weight of your own body, but since when do I practise what I preach?

_Since when do I allow myself the luxury?_

I hate my life, and all the bad things that happen in it.

I hate my life for all the people who are not what I need them to be. Not because they can't be, but because they don't _want_ to be.

Everything I don't want to do, I do anyways.

I do it for you,

**(FOR ME)**

So why can't _they?_

_Am I the designated dandelion?_

The stalk that dots the lawn, adding colour when needed, but always, always

**(JUST A WEED)**

I hate people, they're sick, disgusting, foolish animals; so much worse than naked beasts, because they won't admit to their own true nature.

I'd rather be a weed, than a pest.

**(YOU ARE BOTH)**

I am a selfless person, but a person all the same.

And I hate people.

I hate myself for not being worthy of any of the good things; not being worth shit. It's a dog-eat-dog world and I can't stomach the texture of meat.

I'm so damaged.

I'm so deformed, but there's no help for it, is there?

**(NO)**

No, there is not.

I feel sick.

It is a chilly fall morning and I am on the bus listening to music, trying not to throw up.

I don't know what kind of nostalgia called down this sickness but my stomach is roiling, the cuts in my legs are clawing at my senses and I hate myself.

**(I HATE YOU)**

There's a girl in my morning Law class.

I only know her first name, but it's a secret. I feel like the less her name is spoken by others, the more percentage of it I own.

That's sick, isn't it?

**(YOU'VE BEEN NOTHING BUT SICK THESE DAYS)**

She's beautiful, and I think I love her.

I don't actually  _know_ her, but looking at her makes me daydream about the sun, instead of tracing empty silhouettes of the moon.

 

**(EMPTY)**

Sometimes I fall in love with people I don't know, because they haven't had the opportunity to scar me yet.

I still hate them, but I love them also.

Similar to a loyal subject that plots to assassinate their king, but will still submit to his power.

My friends, my relatives,

**(I HAVE NO FAMILY)**

They're all murderers.

They killed the girl that lived inside me a long time ago, and they didn't have the heart to notice. 

I didn't have the heart to tell them.

Hearts are nothing but hollow muscular organs anyways.

Blood is the only thing that makes a heart worth worrying about.

After much deliberation, the judge, jury, and executioner all agree that this kind of unsolicited murder deserves capital punishment.

My law teacher always says that ignorance of the law affords no excuse. Neither does naïveté.

But I am no executioner. So who will punish them?

**(NOT ME)**

I'd rather have the bones in both my hands fractured until there are slivers poking out of my knuckles, than dirty them.

**(MY HANDS ARE FUCKING CLEAN)**

She sits directly behind the window today. Hair shining like spun gold.

She looks as if she were formed from aureate sunlight.

Illuminating. Radiant.

Bright enough to make me flinch, make my pupils shrink, make my retinas burn.

I wonder what it's like to be warm like that, all the time.

I wonder what it's like to be born like that.

If you could be any animal,

**(WHAT WOULD YOU BE)**

I would be a Komodo dragon.

1\. Because I like dragons.

2\. Because they are cold blooded and they understand what it is like to crave warmth.

3\. Because they eat very little.

4.

**(I DON'T WANT TO BE HUMAN)**

The bell goes.

It's time for me to leave.

How many times have I gone through this process? This never-ending cycle.

Days like the seasons, like the years.

Sometimes I like to pretend that this is all just a dream; a tragic display of modern fiction.

I could be reading in an armchair, sunlight slanting through the blinds, leaving horizontal lines across my skin that aren't made with razor blades this time.

Beside me would be plants; hydrangeas, lilies, aloe vera.

At times I just watch them go through the process of photosynthesis, feeling pity for any creature that has to experience a cycle they have no control over, in order to survive.

I shift my weight and turn the page in my book.

**(WHO IS WRITING THIS)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Japanese for 'out of mind'.  
> Don't worry I'll be attempting to put some actual plot and substance in this fic at some point, I just wanted to introduce the personalities. There's only three POV's in this novel so I'm sure you'll be fine, if I actually learn to write properly.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter coming soon hopefully!!!


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